Just Another Dead: The 109th Hunger Games
by HappilyImperfect
Summary: Katniss and Peeta never existed, and the Hunger Games are still as bad as ever. As the 109th Games begin, who will be crowned Victor, and who will be 'just another dead? All spots are now taken! Feel free to read and vote, even if you haven't sent in a tribute.
1. The Prologue

**A/N: Hello and welcome to the 109th Annual Hunger Games! What fun we shall have! This is my first SYOT, so bear with me!**

**Okay, so this first chapter shall have the tribute form, but so this doesn't break all the rules as one big author's note or whatever, I've written a prologue of sorts, of how the previous year's victor won. Enjoy, and don't forget to submit a tribute!**

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Micheal Shutter, Age 15, District 6

Drip, drip, drip. April's blood drops off Goliath's sword like water off a leaking tap. She was so young, only twelve. Third place isn't bad for a twelve-year-old. Of course, nobody is praised for third place. Or second. All that matters is the Victor. And as I stare into Goliath's cold-blooded eyes, somewhere in my heart I know that it shall not be me. Not that I'm giving up, I have to put up a fight, for Tyler I said I would. I wonder if he even knows what's going on. He may be older than me, but he has the mind of a three-year-old.

Goliath strides towards me across the icy terrain with little effort at all. He must have sponsors who can afford to get him non-slip boots, whereas I don't. Well, of course he's got sponsors! He's from District Two!

My legs only realise what they need to be doing when he's less than ten metres away. I turn around and try to run – I'm smaller and more agile than him, but my feet slide about on the slippery ice so I can't go very fast. I'm just about outrunning him, but with his mammoth steps the chase can only go on for so long. Still, running is my only chance, as I'm weaponless, so I continue on. When I can feel him right behind me, hot breath piercing my goose-pimpled neck, my brain semi-consciously conjures up a plan. It's risky, but my only chance. I stop running and drop to my belly. As I'd hoped, I slide right through Goliath's legs and end up behind him. Finally, a good use for my small size. There's no time to lose though, so I quickly jump up and start running in the opposite direction. If I can just find where that layer of thinner ice is, I can go straight across it and it will only break for his heavy weight. But where is it?

I spot the patch of thinner ice only a hundred metres away. I've learnt that the thickest ice is blue, and the thinnest is grey, with most of it being in between in the white zone. If I can just keep this up for a little while longer, I can get home. Eighty metres, fifty, twenty. I'm almost there, I can do it. Ten, five, three... Yes, I can do it, I'm going to get out of here! But then I am caught by the collar and pinned to the ground by Goliath. I thrash about under his weight, but it's no good; he's got me.

Goliath shakes his head and tuts in mock-pity. "Oh dear, midgie Mikey, it's all over, isn't it?" he says to me, "You'll never be able to win now." I continue to thrash about but it doesn't work, he just pushes against me harder. Eventually I give in.

"Okay, you've won," I say, "You know that. Can you please just get it over with?" Goliath laughs.

"Oh no, Mikey-boy," he teases, "I promised Romeo a show before I win, and a show we shall get." I remember. It was practically all he went on about in his interview with Romeo Dallerson. I didn't say much in my own one, but it seems a lifetime ago now.

Goliath wipes his sword on my shirt, smothering it with the blood of the girl I saw him murder just minutes ago. He doesn't care about who he kills. Each one means just another dead for him. But he's wrong. People mean more than that.

I can feel my heart thumping hard in my chest. It would have been better for me to just die in the bloodbath with my district partner, Sophie. It would be over quicker. Goliath starts with my cheek. He begins to drag the sharp blade from the right side of my face and then over my nose to the left. I resist the impulse to cry out of pain by focusing on his eyes. Deadened grey eyes that can't tell right from wrong; perhaps they never could. But my gaze is interrupted when I see his hand drop much closer to my face as the sword tip almost reaches my ear. I use all my strength to force my head upwards enough to bite his hand. Reflexively, Goliath drops the sword and starts screaming hell at me for this insignificant injury. While I still have the chance, I grab the sword and half-throw, half-slide it across onto the grey ice nearby.

Goliath's face growls at me, before his voice does the same, "You little insect!" He bashes my head against the cool ground and my head feels foggy once he does. "I'll be right back, you know. You aren't getting anywhere soon." My giant opponent stands and marches off towards his discarded weapon. _Please, _I beg, _please let this work. _I turn my head to the side just in time to watch the ice under Goliath break and see him fall into the water. He flails around crying bloody murder before his attempts to flee the water eventually fail, and his cannon booms.

In the small pool of blood around my head, I let out a weak smile before the world blacks out. I am Victor of the 108th Hunger Games. Now I only need to worry about Tyler not getting picked for the 109th Games, when I have to mentor. That's the part I'm going to hate.

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**A/N: I hope you liked that, I might use his POV again for something. Now, tribute form time. Please only send tributes via PM, or I'm likely to ignore them. And send me a Mary-Sue and they'll either be ignored or killed in the bloodbath. You have been warned...**

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Tribute Form for the 109th Hunger Games

The Basics

Name (try to make it distict-related):

Age (12-18, no younger than 16 if they're a Career):

Gender:

Preferred District – list three in case:

Appearance – hair, eyes, height, stature, etc:

Personality (detailed so I can be accurate when writing them!):

History (detailed, but brief, I'm not writing their biography):

Relationships

Family (list and give brief description of each person):

Friends (brief description of each):

At the reaping

Do they take tesserae? How much? Who for?:

Reaped or volunteered?:

If reaped, what was their reaction?:

If volunteered, why? – make it original and realistic if they're a non-Career:

Reaping outfit:

Token – who was it from? What does it mean to them? Description, etc:

Escort – name and brief description:

Before the Games

Mentor – name and brief description:

Stylist – name and brief description:

Chariot outfit (remember non-Careers' can be awful!):

Training strategy:

What they showed the Gamemakers:

Suggested training score – make it realistic:

Interview outfit:

Interview angle:

Interview quote? (optional):

Skills

Strengths – maximum of 5:

Weaknesses – minimum of 3:

Preferred weapon:

Worst weapon:

During the Games

Bloodbath tribute? (I will need some!):

Cornucopia strategy:

Arena strategy:

Open to alliances? If so, with whom?:

Romance? (I'm not planning on pairing up loads of people, just so you know):

Preferred death? (yes, you might want them to win, but there's a 23 to 1 chance they won't!):

Other stuff

Any suggestions for something that should happen with them?:

Something I missed?:

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**A/N: Thank you very much, remember, send by PM and no Mary-Sues! I shall hopefully have a tribute list up soon and I might make/find pictures of them and put them on a blog as I've seen some people do on SYOTs, depends how bored I get. Remember, you can send as many as you like, but I will need some bloodbaths, so they would be much appreciated.**

**Please review on what you thought of my little prologue bit up there too, and PM me if you want to know anything. I'm thinking about doing all the reapings in one chapter so we can get this thing rolling! Might depend on what tributes I get, though.**

**-IWriteStuffWithWordsInIt x**


	2. The Arena

**A/N: Stop the press! The tribute list is complete! And the arena shall be revealed...**

**Stick around the point system and the blog for this story! :-) Hope you like the arena!**

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The green-feathered boots of this year's Head Gamemaker scoot across the marble floor at an alarming pace. He can't be late. Two minutes could mean the difference between a long term in charge of the Games and his immediate execution. Luckily, he arrives at the president's door with thirty seconds to spare. He takes this time to make sure he is presentable – straightening his bow-tie, putting a stray hair back in its place, checking his shirt is fully tucked-in. Now he looks to the wristwatch on his left arm, while he readies his right to knock. Three, two, one, 11:15am, on the dot. As the time on the clock changes, he allows a quick three taps before waiting. Barely any time has passed before an Avox is opening the door for him and gesturing that he should enter. That could be him in a few weeks' time, he thinks as it takes his jacket and hangs it on a coat stand. Or worse. Of course, being a Capitolite through-and-through, he can't be bothered to worry about that.

As Santiago Pierceson turns around, he finds President Alba Snow sat prominently behind her desk. Her hair is its natural brown hue, with a few barely-noticeable grey highlights. Most Capitol citizens would be laughed at ten streets away for letting such natural things show, but it didn't matter to Alba. She was the president, nobody could say anything against her, especially after her great-grandfather had spent so long in the same role. Nobody disagreed that she was now the best one for the job either, because she was. The makings of a president were how well they could keep the districts in line, how scared they could make them. They also tended to be judged by the quality of their Games, so Alba needed to make sure Santiago had got it to a T.

"Sit down," orders the president, and Santiago obliges, taking the seat opposite her. "So," she begins, adjusting a pencil to be exactly parallel to the desk's edge, "what do you have in store for me this year?"

Santiago lets out a small smirk. "I'll show you." He hands her some blueprints, "These are the basic designs," she flicks through them, "but I think it can only be experienced best in person."

Snow raises an eyebrow, "And it's safe for people to go on?"

Santiago nods and laughs, "For the time being." Snow still doesn't look convinced, so he says, "I've got a hovercraft waiting outside. And if something does go _horribly wrong, _I'm sure your Peacekeepers shall be ready and waiting to shoot me down."

Alba considers this a moment. He's confident, she'll give him that. She likes to see people standing up against her, at least when it's in _this _way. And the blueprints seem reasonable. Though she can't shake off the feeling that he's trying to woo her. It's been so long since anybody even attempted to do that. Probably has something to do with the fact she will always be the one in control of the relationship. _Well,_ thinks Alba, _I _do_ need to keep the Snow family running..._ A little soon to be thinking of that, perhaps, but he's got guts. She likes that.

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One slightly-tedious hovercraft ride later, and Snow and Santiago are entering the brand-new arena. They wear protective – and sterilised – white suits to 'just make sure we're totally safe', though really Santiago is just thinking the president will be none too pleased if she were to get mud on her high-heels.

"Here we are," announces Santiago after the two descend down the hovercraft ladder. He casually walks over to where the giant metal horn of the Cornucopia stands and leans back against its cool gold surface. Oh, he's definitely trying to woo her with that move. But Snow isn't impressed.

"So _this _is your amazing arena?" she exclaims in disgust.

"Yup," replies the Head Gamemaker. President Snow marches up to him with daggers for eyes and a pointing finger.

"We. Are in. A field," she bellows aggressively. "I gave you the entire budget for this year's Games... and you came up with... A FIELD?!"

"No," says Santiago coolly, anticipating this reaction from her, "it has everything that was on my blueprints." Snow remembers the blueprints. There were lava pits, forests, ice, an ocean... there was everything. This... is a field. She gives a death stare into Santiago's artificially violet eyes, "I swear, if this is some sort of joke, I'll-"

The man cuts her off. "I'll show you it all," he says, and leads her towards the edge of the circle of platforms. He walks past a plate, and for a moment Snow swears that the air... wobbles. And she can't believe what she's seeing when Santiago leans against thin air. Curious, she steps towards him and her mind goes fuzzy for a moment as her surroundings change. Now she is not in the middle of some grassy field, she is stood in the midst of a tropical jungle, humid atmosphere, birds squawking above her head, the narrow trunks of trees stretching upwards and blotting out almost all of the sunlight. Santiago leans against one of these such trees, and Snow cannot speak as she turns around to find the jungle stretches on for what must be miles.

"But... how?" she asks, flabbergasted. Santiago grins and explains something or other about different wavelengths and frequencies of the locations and blah-blah-blah, no-sense sciency stuff. She interrupts him halfway through, "So, what you're saying is, by going through a certain part of this..."

"...I call it a semi-permeable forcefield."

"...Yes, that," continues the president, raising an eyebrow at him speaking, "...so when a tribute enters it in a certain place, they enter a certain simulated environment?"

"Exactly," confirms the Head Gamemaker, "and this turns the whole arena into this environment for the tribute. Plus, the tributes in one environment can freely run into others from another environment, even though they won't be seeing all the same things. For example, if, per say, there were a tribute in the 'water' arena, they may be swimming through some of it, but to a tribute in the 'fire' arena, it would appear they were walking along the ground in an odd way, not floating as you may expect. With me so far?"

"Yes, I think we are on the same..." Snow smiles before finishing off her sentence, "...wavelength."

Santiago allows himself a small grin at that before carrying on with the full explanation. "The way that the arenas... interlock, it means that if someone was to make a weapon out of something in their arena, it could be used against another tribute in another arena, and that tribute would be able to see it, because it had been modified by a human. This is the same for food; if food is gathered in one arena, it can be eaten in another." He grins at the next bit he will explain, "However, the audience may get bored of constantly seeing the _same _tributes in the _same _environment all the time, so..." he reaches into his pocket and presses a button on a controller, "the environment can be randomly shifted around, so none get too accustomed to any." The place around her transforms from a colourful jungle to a colourless icy tundra, not much unlike last year's – for that the Head Gamemaker got... fired, to say the least. Santiago has disappeared.

"Pierceson!" yells Snow. Santiago peers round a block of nothingness where there used to be a tree. A grin is again plastered on his face, and he presses another button on his controller to revert the arena back to its original field design.

"I knew you'd like it," says Santiago as they walk back towards the hovercraft, "There are six arenas altogether, you know. Apart from the original field, they are themed with some of the elements, fire, water, ice, earth – that was the jungle – and rock. We didn't need to do a specific one for air, for obvious reasons. And I haven't even mentioned how there is a depth filter on the forcefield, so when on the plain, tributes look closer than they are, therefore if we should totally shut down the alternative arenas, the tributes shall be extremely close together for a big fight." He waits by the ladder for a response.

"You've outdone yourself, Santiago," says Alba sweetly, and gives him a peck on the cheek, which is answered with a blush. This Head Gamemaker doesn't need to worry about executions, not that he ever really bothered to. He has wooed her.

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**A/N: So, what do you think of the arena? It's confusing to explain, but once you've got it in your head, I think you've got it. Sorry if the Head GamemakerxPresident stuff was a bit weird, but... yeah, I've got nothing. I like the word 'woo'.**

**:-D Thanks to everybody that submitted a tribute! Including my ten-year-old brothers... They made their tributes Careers just because they thought that would mean they'd win :-L Not that easy... They won't be getting any favouritism here.**

**Check out the blog here: ** justanotherdead109hg . blogspot . co . uk/**  
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**It has pictures of the tributes (I apologise to nb1998 for making Mars Justin Bieber, it was the only picture I could find that basically matched your description) and quick details of their preferred weapons, whether they were reaped or volunteered, etc. I'll also have training scores and allies up there whenever they crop up, and possibly a kills table and stuff. Aren't I professional? (No.)**

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**And the points system: Most of these things confuse the hell out of me, but recently I've found an easy-to-understand system on d11olive-13's SYOT, so I'm adapting from that.**

**Every chapter, you list your top five favourite tributes for that chapter or altogether (starting next chapter), not including your own, because that wouldn't be fair and you'll just be wasting a vote. Your top tribute will receive 5 points, your second 4, and then down to your fifth will get just 1. The amount of points the tributes each have will determine how many times their name is placed in a hat, where they will be "reaped" to decide if they live or die on a certain chapter. So the more points your tribute has, the more likely they are to stay alive longer. And if you're not voting at all, I'll just kill your own tribute in the bloodbath. Did that all make sense? I hope so. Every living tribute shall go in at least once (excluding bloodbaths), and the points are accumulative.**

**Any questions about anything, then just put it in a review or ask me through PM!**

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**The reapings and goodbyes shall be split into three chapters about that morning, the actual reaping and the goodbyes. So they'll likely be the longest chapters I'll ever do. How long exactly, I don't know, but more than the average chapter anyway.**

**Sorry, long author's note... But please leave me a review to tell me what you think of everything! :-D Thanks, and I'll try to update soon and regularly.**


	3. The Morning

**A/N: Sorry this took so long! Hopefully I will never take this long again, although I start school again on Wednesday and it's GCSE level, so no guarantees with the amount of homework I'll likely get. Okay, so this is "The Morning" chapter. Theoretically, I probably didn't need it, but I wanted to just give some of all the tributes' backgrounds right away, or else I'll forget to even mention the important stuff. This is the first chapter for voting, and there will be a reminder on how it works at the end.**

**Oh, and this chapter is in the third person, a kind of omniscient point of view, because it helps shorten the whole thing a little without removing detail. But starting next chapter, I think it will basically always be in people's POVs from there.**

**Hold onto your hats, people! It's going to be a bumpy ride! Through a few thousand words :-S But stay with me! I've set the districts out in a random order, partly to spread out the Careers districts a bit. Enjoy!**

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District Three

Today is the day that Electra Watts will go into the Hunger Games. Better to get it out of the way, while she still looks cute and innocent. _Yeah, right,_ she thinks, combing through her long, blonde ringlets; she's a born killer, no innocence at all. It makes her laugh the way that nobody expects it of her. Well, she's just a poor little twelve-year-old orphan girl, isn't she? Poor little Electra, losing her parents in that atrocious house fire. They never did catch the one responsible, did they? Electra knows who did it. She saw them. Well, it's hard to not see yourself setting off every match in the box.

She moved in to the community home after that, and the tragedy of it all was just so _awful. _Poor little Electra Watts. _Bleurgh. _Sometimes she wishes she wasn't so small and innocent-looking, but she knows this is a good thing, really. If it wasn't for her looking like that, she might have been arrested when they found Lily Staker with her throat slit. _She was just too curious_, thinks Electra, _she was always snooping around everywhere. _Electra should have known she would find out eventually. When she did, Electra begged in her cutest, most innocent voice for her not to tell. But Lily didn't buy that. She finally saw what Electra was, and knew she had to tell the Matron immediately in the morning. Electra laughed at the memory of it. Lily was smart, she had to give her that, but simply wasn't in the same league as herself. Nobody was. Or is. _I am the smartest of the smart, _thinks Electra as she finishes her hair off. A pair of bright blue eyes stare back at her in the bathroom mirror. Nobody else is up yet. Electra herself would normally be asleep at this time, but not today. Today she must look her best. She is about to head back to the dormitory when the door behind her opens.

"Hi Electra," says a voice, and Electra flinches on purpose, as her 'character' would do. Electra prepares herself for the annoyance behind her.

"Winny!" she cries, and throws her arms around her 'best friend', "I- I- I couldn't sleep! It's our first reaping... and... and..." Emotionless tears and sobs leave her eyes and mouth.

"Oh, Electra!" says Winny with a now slightly-dampened nightie, "You should have woken me up. I'm only two beds away." Winny pulls Electra gently off her and looks at her pink, tear-streaked face with concern, "Did you have the nightmare again?" Electra looks to the floor. "Electra." After a moment, Electra looks up into Winny's slate-grey eyes and gives a short nod. Winnie shakes her head and embraces Electra again, rocking them both back and forth like a baby in its cradle. "It's okay, you're fine. One day they'll find the sick vandal that set it alight, and he'll get exactly what he deserves. But you don't need to worry about it, okay?" Electra smiles out of sight of Winny, because the only thing she's worried about is getting picked. It would just seem so much more realistic if she were reaped.

The two girls aren't the only ones up in District Three. In the flat above the clothes shop, Mars Elroid is desperately trying to _not _be up. Of course, Pluto the dog has other ideas.

"Squeak-a!" goes the toy cactus as the Alsatian continuously bites it, "Squeak-a! Squeak-a!"

"Shut. Up." Mars growls at it, but the dog is totally oblivious.

"Squeak-a! Squeak-a!"

"Stop it now or I swear I'll be _sending_ you to Pluto!" The dog looks up at his name, but upon realising there are no treats or stroking-sessions coming, he returns to his current mission of annoying the hell out of the sixteen-year-old whose bed he lies beside.

"Squeak-a! Squeak-a!" This turns Mars over the edge and he snatches the toy straight out of Pluto's mouth. The dog whines.

"No," says Mars, "you should have thought about that before when I warned you. You're not getting this back." He places the squeaky-toy into the pocket of the dark suit he'll wear to the reaping today. Nobody gets past him. He always completes a mission. And at the present time, his mission is to get some extra sleep.

He remembers how he got into that mission malarkey as he tries to return into slumber. He was a puny little nine-year-old, wandering the streets while his workaholic parents didn't even notice he'd gone out. While walking, he accidentally overheard a conversation about a robbery that was going to take place. He immediately ran for help and explained it all to a man, who by a great coincidence, happened to work for a spying agency. Mars was hired straight away. Nobody would ever suspect such a young child, and he was pretty good at not being noticed, too. The last to be picked for everything, not because he was bad at it, he just seemed to become part of the background.

All is silent for a long while, and Mars is almost back to sleep when there is a crash from his side. He opens one eye to look and finds Pluto staring back. "Squeak-a."

District Four

Sebastian Aqueor tests out his many poses in the full-length mirror. Do it like... this... and the girls all swoon. This... and they faint. Or this... and orgasms can easily occur. From either gender. _Oh yes, Seb, you are looking hot today! _he thinks as he admires the beauty of his body's reflection. _How will the girls resist? _Answer: they won't. Well, except perhaps Angie. There's always been something wrong with her. After all, _she _would have him believe that the Games are a bad thing. Er, hello? It's just an inter-district competition! And Sebastian has to win everything, including this. And one day, Angie will give in to her _obviously _obsessive attractions to him and he'll win her too. Girls, like everything else in life, are just prizes to be won. And you can never have too many prizes.

A few miles away from Sebastian, a seventeen-year-old girl and boy sit peacefully on one of District Four's many beaches, watching the waves frolic playfully back and forth from them. Their fingers interlock so closely and tightly together, the way only the most star-crossed of lovers' do. "You ready for this today?" asks the boy. The girl turns to him.

"Jackson, I was born ready," she says. Jackson laughs.

"I knew you were going to say that."

"Oh, really? And what about this?"

"Yup. Next you're going to say 'Jackson, you are the best boyfriend in the whole of Panem and I could never live without you'."

"No I wasn't!"

"But that doesn't mean you didn't think about it, Coral," he teases. Coral Mar sighs. He's perfect. Just the right amount of everything in him. Calm and collected, like her. Funny, but serious. Protective, but not too protective. Oh, she's going to miss him these next few weeks.

"It's you I'm coming back for, you know," she says as golden sand creeps between her toes.

"I know," he replies, and looks down for a moment.

"What is it?" Coral asks.

"It's just..." he sighs, then looks deep into her luminescent green eyes, "...promise me you _will _come back, okay?"

"I promise," she smiles, "and I won't break that promise. You'll see me soon after today, I'm sure. They've trained me ever since I can remember, so how can I fail?"

District Nine

"Bye, mum! I'm meeting my friends! See you at the reaping!"

"Goren, wait! I thought you were going to take your sis-" the rest of whatever his mother was going to say is lost to the closing of the door as he exits. Goren Vare begins to walk away from his house, but only moments later another body is bursting out.

"Goren, wait!" calls the twelve-year-old, "I'm coming with you!"

"Come on, then, Emile," Goren says without turning or slowing his pace, "I'm not stopping you." Emile grins and dashes up to Goren to be at his side.

"Are you going to meet your friends, then?" she asks.

"Yes, you heard me before I left."

"Well, I had to _check,_" Emile enunciates, "teenagers lie to their parents all the time, apparently. I think I'll probably need to practise. I will be able to get it right in time, won't I?"

Goren shakes his head, "Only _you _would be worried about the capability of you being able to lie to your parents on your first reaping day. Most of them will be shaking in their boots right now."

"Well, I don't need to worry, do I? I've got you to protect me from everything." Goren sighs, because that single slip with Emile's name on it is one of the few things he can't protect her from. They stay silent for a while, until Emile pipes back up, "You're meeting your _girlfriend, _aren't you?"

"No. I am not."

"But why?"

"Why? Because I don't have a girlfriend, therefore it's impossible to meet her."

"But you do! Lisbeth King is your girlfriend! You both _love _each other."

Goren groans, "Anne put you up to this, didn't she?"

"No," Emile lies, blushing from being found out.

"Liar," he says, laughing at her embarrassed expression. "Now come on, silly, we need to meet them pretty soon. And _then _I can tell Anne off for telling you fibs." He speeds up along the road and Emile goes along with him.

Meanwhile, not that far away, Artemis Tsuki stares dreamily out of the window. _Why can't I just ask him?_ she wonders as she watches the boy walk through the street below. He comes past the community home – though everybody calls it 'the orphanage' – everyday to get to school. And he's cute, and shy, but funny to his friends. Not that Artemis is his friend. He might not even know she exists. And he always looks sort of bored... but in a good way. A _cool _way. But even without all that there's just a _something _that's attracting her. He feels familiar, even though she doesn't really know him at all.

She has to ask him out. Today. She's decided. After the reaping. Though then there's still the problem of his gaggle of friends... they'll probably be with him, Joey Batiste and Yolene Geller and the rest of them, oh and his sisters maybe. Perhaps she should rehearse, but she'd just forget everything that she'd done when it came down to actually doing it. In instances like this – with problems – Artemis would normally scour through a book for an answer. Though somehow, she doesn't think that will work this time. She sighs. She'll just have to go freestyle.

District Seven

Franchesca Willowton-Fortescue is the perfect little daughter of District Seven's mayor, Elm Willowton-Fortescue. Straight A student, excelling in extra-curricular activities, perfect little goody-goody Franchesca always does as her daddy orders. Not.

Franchesca, or Frankie as she likes to be known, has sneaked out of her family's swanky townhouse more times than her father has attended pointless meetings – which accumulates to be a very high number. In the past two years, she has been making _real _friends with _real _people, unlike those plastic snobs she has to meet with that only ever seem to bitch about each other.

Daddy says don't meet with boys. _She's snogged several._ Daddy says don't drink. _She's the life of the party the whole night._ Daddy says don't change your body. _Check out the tattoo of a black rose on her hip._ Frankie has no clue what she wants with her life, so she's trying out everything. Maybe eventually, she'll discover what she really _does_ want. Until then... at least she can experiment with two totally different lives.

Today it is her daddy's-little-girl life. It has to be, as it's the reaping. But tonight... who knows? She puts on the clothes that Daddy picked out for her – a cream lace vest with a fitted tan skirt. He must have asked her mother about this one; she always is the one to ask about anything to do with fashion. She walks down to join her parents where they are making their last minute touches to their outfits. Frankie gradually hikes her skirt up a bit whenever her father looks away, so that eventually it's over halfway up her thighs but he doesn't notice the difference. Her mother suppresses a smile.

"Right!" the mayor announces eventually, "we're going. Now! Can't be late!" The three leave out of the door roughly three hours before the reaping is due to start. Frankie sighs. This is one of the many down sides to being the mayor's daughter. Punctuality is taken far beyond seriousness.

Far away from the townhouses of District Seven, Paul Oakenwood is attempting to sway his many siblings in to getting ready for today. As the eldest child out of six, he has to help his parents out a lot. Every day he feels thankful that his parents had them all practically one after the other, or else he might have a load of screaming toddlers to deal with. But no, he has this.

"That's my bread!"

"No it isn't, I saw it first!"

"No, I did!"

"That doesn't even matter, because I've already eaten it."

"You what?"

"But that was mine!"

"Paul, am I going to be reaped?"

"No, am I?"

"I asked first!"

"Then you can be _reaped_ first, dufus-"

"-I am not a dufus, you... dufus!"

"Great comeback."

"SHUT UP!" Paul nearly screams, and order comes back for perhaps three seconds, before a new reason for commotion overtakes them once again. Paul sighs. This is going to be a very long morning.

District Twelve

"Father! I'm ready for the reaping now!" Julies Dust calls.

"You're only ready _now?_" asks his younger sister, Lucy, unbelieving, "I was ready forever ago!"

"Well, of course _you_ were, little Lightning," he replies snootily, "you're too fast for your own good." Lucy – who is known as 'Lightning' because of her speed – sticks out her tongue at Julies and enters the living room.

"He's _finally _done," she announces drearily, dropping herself down hard into a leather armchair.

"Good," says their father, the mayor of District Twelve, in a matter-of-fact tone, "we need to be going," he stands up and heads for the door, but then turns around. "Straighten that tie, Julies," he says, "if you end up going to the Capitol, you want to look nice, don't you?" Julies smirks because he knows for a fact he won't be going to the Capitol. You only go to the Capitol if you get reaped, and he won't be. His father already told him that he had all the slips with his name on it removed from the boys' reaping bowl. And if he doesn't have any slips, he can't be reaped, can he?

Over in the Seam, another teenager is preparing for the reaping, but not how you may expect. Malachite Cicero is practising her knife-throwing. It isn't her best skill, but that's exactly why she needs to practise it. The other stupid Careers from the lower districts will need a lot of convincing to let her in, even though she's sure her abilities shall far surpass whatever they're capable of. Just wait 'till they see what she can do with a sword... Admittedly, Malachite has only ever managed to get her hands on a wooden one, but it's the same theory. Sure, a metal sword _will_ be heavier, but she's ready for that too, lifting great sacks of tessera grain everyday.

Everyone is going to stare at her when she volunteers. Good, that'll mean she'll be more eye-catching to the entire audience, not that she'll need them to do that. Volunteers are so scarce in Twelve, where there have only ever been three victors, that she's bound to get noticed, especially with how confident she'll look next to her no-doubt wimpy district partner. There is a reason she wants to volunteer; it isn't just some spontaneous suicide mission. But she can't tell anyone, they wouldn't understand; in District Twelve, the definition of 'tribute' is practically synonymous with 'corpse'.

But definitions can change.

District One

"You aren't volunteering today, right, Ivory?" Shimmer Glint asks.

"Of course I'm not!" replies her daughter, laughing, "I promised you I would volunteer at eighteen when I was only three! And I'd never break a promise to you."

The mother smiles down at Ivory, whose long fair hair she combs through, "And what else did you promise?"

"I promised I'd win, and I won't break that promise either. How could I lose with you as my mentor? I'll have the most sponsors out of them all, I am beautiful enough – just like you." Shimmer walks around to face Ivory. She _is _beautiful, just like she'd hoped she would be, but it would be much better if Ivory were perhaps a little taller, slightly less skinny. If only Shimmer's husband hadn't died, she could have had an even better potential-victor. But no matter, Ivory was skilled after all the years Shimmer had trained her. The perfect killer. And maybe she'll have grown a little more by next year, to look more fearsome, more intimidating.

"Can I go meet Kyle now?" asks Ivory, "I said we'd meet up before we went to the reaping."

Shimmer chuckles, "Of course, go on." Shimmer is proud of Ivory for that. She only has Kyle around for the sake of it. Her having a boyfriend makes her more desirable. And it's good for her to have as little real relationships as possible; she won't have to worry about anything like that in the arena that way, only about winning.

Only on the other side of District One, a brother and a sister stand just inside the door to their house. "You aren't volunteering today, right?" the older sister, Ribbon, asks with a harsh seriousness in her eyes.

Titan stares at his sister blankly for a while, before saying, "Did I mention how pretty your hair looks today?"

"Titan, you won't volunteer today. Will you?"

"And that dress... simply ravishing on you!"

"I mean it, Titan," she says, pushing him into a wall, "promise me you won't volunteer!"

"Why should I?" he complains, shoving her off him so hard she barely stays on her feet, "This will be the last time I'm eligible! It's the last chance I'll have to achieve my dream!" Ribbon stomps on his foot. HARD. Just because she never entered the Hunger Games doesn't mean she wasn't trained to.

"It isn't your dream!" Ribbon cries, "It's our parents'!"

Titan huffs, "You're just saying that because _you _were too scared to volunteer back when you still had the chance. Well, _I'm _not. I'm the best Career there's ever been. I'm fearless."

Ribbon shakes her head, "Will you ever stop being so naive?"

"I am _not_ naive!" exclaims Titan, "I know every trick in the Hunger Games! Every technique, strategy, weapon, mutt, arena – EVERYTHING! So don't expect me to let you live in MY house in Victors' Village when I come back."

"Right. So that's it. You really _are_ just an arrogant little-"

"Little? That's cheap coming from you."

"Look, just do what you want. I hope dying at the hands of some kid gives you everything you hoped for." Ribbon opens the door and pushes Titan out.

"It will," he says. "Hey! What do you-" The door slams. Titan huffs and turns away. Her opinion will soon change. This time next year she'll be going on about how she encouraged him, made sure he was at his best before the Games. Maybe he'll let her. After she's begged him to forgive her for her foolishness, of course. He imagines this on his way to the reaping.

District Ten

Sleeping are two twins; a boy and a girl. The boy is Bill Black, the girl, Amber. Apart from surname and age, the two are very different. Amber has hair the colour of her name and eyes a gentle shade of blue, whereas Bill has hair black as coal and eyes green like the grass that grows in their miniscule garden. The ways their bodies are built are also very different; Bill has grown strong from years of helping out with herding the livestock of District Ten, but from over a decade of suffering a terrible illness, Amber is rather weak and isn't the most accustomed to the outside world. But despite these differences, these two are the closest they could be.

Too bad that by the end of today, they could both be sentenced to a fight to the death.

District Five

"Ellie, what if I get picked?" worries Brianna.

"You won't get picked. You're in there once. Now eat!" Ellie Versona ushers her younger siblings to get going faster. They always dawdle over something or other, so if they wanted to leave for something at nine, they'd end up going out at ten. That can't happen on reaping day.

"Actually," begins Crackle, "There _is _a chance you'll be picked. Estimating the approximate volume of each slip, and then the volume of how much space they take up in the reaping bowl, there has to be three thousand in there at a minimum, which then... uh, means..." the eight-year-old trails off as her eldest sister shoots her a glare.

"I know for a fact you won't be going into the Games, Brianna," says Ellie calmly. She doesn't say _how _she knows. Doesn't add on how she's planning on volunteering herself anyway. Everyone would just fret and beg her not to. But Ellie feels she must, it isn't simply for greed; it's so her family will stop going hungry. She and Brianna have been working at the power plant ever since their parents died in an explosion there, but it isn't enough to stop them all going hungry most days. A lot of the time Ellie won't even eat just so the younger ones can have her ration. Still, most people would likely still think of entering the Games as suicide, but it isn't like she's _totally _defenceless. She's practiced throwing a knife since she bought it in the black market two years ago. Now she thinks she might finally be ready.

Ellie watches all her four sisters eat their bread. Even if she hadn't already given it up, she couldn't eat her ration. Feels like she might just end up vomiting it back up on stage. Better not to take the risk.

Everyone will probably think she's stupid when she goes up there. But she isn't stupid. It makes her blood boil when people say otherwise. Just because she might have some different policies to others doesn't make her stupid. They're just annoyed that she isn't the norm, the prissy, gossipy, giggly girl as everyone else seems to be. Annoyed that she has an open mind. Annoyed that she still believes it's possible for someone to overthrow the Capitol. And also annoyed that the logic of her motto makes sense; "You can claim that anything's true if there's no proof that it's not true".

No proof that she can't win the Hunger Games.

A pair of twins walk by the old, run-down cottage of the Versonas. They are already heading for the reaping, because they felt like taking the long route. The girl is called Singe Nightrush, the boy Spark. They talk as they go.

"Well, you are!" exclaims Singe, "You're the best healer I've ever seen!"

"I'm not a healer, Singe," says Spark, "Mum's the healer, not me."

"But you will be!" insists Singe, "Just wait and see. I bet you could even be a doctor if you wanted."

"No," Spark replies softly, "I could never be that good."

"_Never be that good?_ Spark, you helped Niko when he was ill. When you were _six. _I bet Mum never saved a bunny's life when she was six."

Spark sighs. "Yes, but Niko _died_."

"Four years later! Come on, Spark give yourself some credit."

"If I do will you quit pestering me about it?" Singe nods. "Alright. I shall give myself some credit."

Singe smiles, "Just you wait. A few more years, and you'll be the best doctor in all of District Five. I just know it. Nothing can stop you."

District Eleven

Linden Cormac is getting himself ready for his first reaping. He tucks his white, button-up shirt into his dull, grey shorts, and attempts to keep his socks pulled up, though they fall back around his ankles almost immediately because of their sheer size.

"I'm sure you'll grow into them," says his mother.

"I know I will," Linden replies coolly, "the question is, how long shall it take?"

"I know, I know!" his ten-year-old sister, Dory, yells, "It will take never!"

"You know, if you have no idea what you're saying, maybe you shouldn't answer," says Linden, "Otherwise it just makes you look obnoxious. Which you are, but you don't want people to know that, do you?"

"I am not obnoxious!" shouts Dory, "Whatever it means!"

"Dory, you're just digging a bigger hole for yourself."

"NO! I am NOT!"

Their mother sighs, "Yes you are, hunny. Now go get your good clothes on."

"Fine," snaps Dory before stomping off. Their mother shakes her head.

"If she listened a little bit more, I think she might get along with people better," Linden remarks politely, "maybe we could help her with doing that." Their mother shakes her head again, this time smiling.

"Sometimes Linden, I think you're an old man trapped in a child's body," she says, "you're likely the wisest kid I've ever met. Most of the time." Dory calls out for her after a moment, and she goes off to see what it is she wants. Linden goes over to sit by his older sister Maple on the mattress.

"Hey, kid," she says, and tousles through his ebony hair affectionately, "you feeling alright about the reaping?"

"Yeah," Linden mumbles, "I don't suppose I can be picked, anyway. They never pick twelve-year-olds, do they? Even though I've got the tesserae for us all this year, it's hardly likely that they'll choose me against all those eighteen-year-olds."

"Linden, I would have taken the tesserae if you wanted. You didn't need to."

"No, you've already had to take it for us all for three years. I think now that I _can, _I should. It's fairer that way. I'll have less slips in there taking out everybody's tesserae than if it was you, so then it's fairer. Not that it's even fair at all."

"I know, Linden. It isn't fair. But that's how it is."

"Well, maybe it shouldn't be how it is. Children aren't _meant _to fight to the death. That isn't nature."

"No. That's the Capitol."

"But one day I'll stand up to them. One day."

"No you won't. You're one person against the most powerful force there's ever been. I'm not sure that's going to work."

"It could. In the right circumstances."

Over on the other side of District Eleven, Aimee Terra also gets ready for the reaping. She slips on a sleek purple dress that hangs at her knees; it has been passed down her family for generations, so the colour has faded and the fabric has been torn and stitched up numerous times, but she still finds it beautiful. She also wears a pair of sandals which are a little too big for her, and can't be all that younger than the dress, Aimee reckons.

She heads into the main room now, where her family waits for her. "Are we going now?" her brother Bryan worries.

"Yes," Aimee replies, "Mum says she'll catch us up later. You know the arthritis makes everything a little harder for her." Bryan nods and jumps up from being sat on the floor. He shuffles towards the door, staring at his feet. "Hey," Aimee grabs his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks, "it won't be you. It's never twelve-year-olds chosen. And you aren't even taking tesserae. You're in there once!"

Bryan stares up into her pale green eyes. "That's not what I'm worried about," he says, "I don't want it to be you! You're in there loads of times. Three because you have to, then another three for your tesserae, more for mine and Mum's, and you even took it for your friends Jasmine and Artemis!"

"So?"

"That means you have eighteen!"

"And?"

"That's eighteen times too many! Why can't you just do the minimum? Sometimes it's a good thing to be selfish!"

"It's never a good thing to be selfish," Aimee says matter-of-factly, before opening the front door and ushering Bryan out. The sound of the door slamming vibrates the whole house for a moment, as the two children leave for what could become either of their death sentences.

District Six

Sixteen-year-old Naomi Steel is one of the few people awake in District Six, but only because she dreamt about it _again._ Now she sits on the narrow windowsill by her parents' mattress, staring at the place where her nightmare took place. _Again. _This happens everyday, and it's always even worse when it's the reaping, because then there's an extra misery to add on.

She can remember it as if it only happened yesterday, despite the fact that five long years have passed. She would trade them all just for one last moment with him, but of course that would never happen. Once you're dead, you're dead. No going back. Her family just wants her to get over what happened, but she can't. It doesn't work like that. She doesn't want to, but she finds herself remembering that day at almost every moment. How can she get over it when she is constantly reminded of the events of that day?

Naomi and Demetrius were best friends; practically joined at the hip. So it's no wonder that they were walking home from school together that day, as they did every day. But unlike everyday, there was a problem. The road was totally blocked off by a gang of older kids, and you didn't want to mess with them. Naomi and Demetrius didn't panic, they just made their way towards the railway line, where they would detour to in bad situations. A chain-link fence ten metres high blocked the lines off, but the gate was always left unlocked. The two friends walked along the lines towards home, talking about things that Naomi can't even remember – not that they were important. Demetrius and Naomi were almost up to their street when there came a thundering roar behind them. A Capitol train appeared behind Demetrius, and by the time Naomi warned him it was too late; his twelve-year-old body had already taken its last breath and lay crushed and mangled on the railway line.

She hasn't been that close to anyone since that day; she hasn't allowed herself to. If she starts to feel for anybody, she'll surely just lose them like she lost Demetrius. She sighs as her parents begin to emerge from their happy land of sleep. Naomi jumps from the windowsill to get ready. There'll be tessera grain bread to eat and then she'll have to get dressed in her reaping clothes. And then the 'fun' begins.

Only a few streets away, a baby-faced boy is awaking to prepare for his first reaping. This is Henry Kline, though he's only ever been called Harry. Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he wanders over to the slightly-grubby mirror that hangs on the grey-ish wall of the room. It's totally blurred when he looks into it. _My glasses, _he thinks, his feet remembering the route to the windowsill. Harry fumbles his hands about on its surface until his hands meet with the plastic temples. He opens them up and slips them on. _There_, now the world doesn't look quite so fractured.

Walking back over to the mirror, he sees that his sister, Annabel, is already out of bed – and out the door, probably. She always was an early riser. The reflection in the polished metal before him is a bedraggled sight. His blonde hair is even more wild than normal, and he can't even be bothered to try to tame it right now; it will only end up in even more of a frizz. As he takes a good long look at himself, at those freakishly magnified brown eyes, he thinks it's no wonder they call him 'Four Eyes'. And it isn't like he could stand up for himself. Half of them are nearly full-grown, whereas he has the basic appearance of a ten-year-old, and not a large one at that.

Still not fully awake, he walks across the room to where all the kitchen cabinets are. Pushed to the very back of one of the cupboards, he finds the small loaves of bread they made yesterday with the tesserae grain he collected for this month. It means he has a four-hundred percent increase in the chances of getting picked today.

Once Harry has sat down to eat, it isn't long before Annabel returns. "Morning," she says, heading towards the cupboards to get her own bread ration.

"Morning," replies Harry slightly more awkwardly than usual. Blame the nerves.

"You know, you should come get fresh air in the morning with me some time."

Harry shakes his head. She says this every morning, and he won't ever go out. Going out means people _pointing_ you out, teasing you for your size, your glasses, your love of science. Much easier to stay in. Then you don't risk having to talk to anyone either.

"It's okay to be scared, Harry," says his sister after a moment, sensing the tension inside of him, "only seven years and then you'll be safe, like me. You're only in there what I was, and that turned out fine, didn't it?" He looks into her crystal-blue eyes, checking for lies. He doesn't see any in them. She's right. They've always been lucky before. No reason why they won't be lucky now, too.

District Two

Phobia Flint is going to own them all this year when she volunteers. There's no way they can hold her back. She's been waiting for this since she was born. Surely there could not be better tribute material than this. She can slash a dummy to pieces with a sword – as she practises doing now – in less than five seconds. She can unhinge someone just by staring at them. No, scratch that, she can unhinge someone just by being there, even if she were only doing something pathetic, like sleeping. But the reason she can unhinge other people so easily is likely due to the fact that her hinge has been blown straight off, leaving a gaping hole called madness in its place. Sometimes it fixes itself up for a short while, though.

It's barely 3am, but Phobia is in the Training Centre practising. She has to be on top of her game for this, so she'll be up to her maximum form. Nobody else has her dedication; she's the only one here. Admittedly that's probably because they always lock it up overnight until 7am, but it isn't all that hard to pick a lock. She looks up to the giant white clock that hangs on the wall. 3:15am. That means it won't be long before...

"Hey, babe," comes a voice from behind her, and soon two strong, muscular arms are wrapping around her waist.

She smiles, "Hey, Mason."

"I've missed you so hard, Phobe," he whispers in her ear, "like a decapitated head misses its weak, murdered little body in the Hunger Games." Phobia lets out a sigh of joy. He's _so _romantic.

"You won't have to miss me much longer," she says, turning to face him and holding his hands tightly in each of hers, "once I win, it won't have to be a secret. I can come home to you, and nobody can make any objections." There's a nice silence for a moment, before Phobia says, "I love you, you know."

"I love you too," replies Mason smoothly. Then they lean in to each other and are playing tonsil tennis in no time. They carry on for a while, before a noise breaks the mood. The noise is a voice from the open door.

"Wow," it says, and the two lovers open their eyes and turn to see who it is. Tiberius Naysmith, an eighteen-year-old who pretty much has it all. Swooning girls, body-builder muscles, weaponry skills, a short temper... some would say he was the perfect Career. And they would be right, because Careers don't tend to be all that smart either. Tiberius charges up to Phobia and Mason. "Seriously?" he yells out as indiscreetly as he could, "I didn't know you two were a couple!" he turns to Phobia with a wink, "I would have started flirting with you ages ago if I did."

"We... aren't a couple," Mason says as the two break hands and budge apart. Tiberius isn't convinced.

"Don't say that when I just saw you two making love," he says, and then laughs, "No! I know what it is!" he grabs the edge of Mason's cheek and speaks in a mocking tone like he's a child, "Little Mason's parents don't want him dating anyone that isn't a victor!"

"I could kill you, you know," says Mason, and Tiberius backs off in mock-surrender.

"Soon he _will_ be dating a victor," Phobia growls, "because I'm going in the Games this year."

Tiberius laughs, "Better say your goodbyes now then, because I'm entering this year. And I'll succeed where Goliath failed last time."

"As if," says Phobia, "Now shove off back down your stinking hole."

"Why should I?"

"Because I have a sword," snarls Phobia, pointing it in one of her half-mad moods.

"Well, _I_ have an axe," replies Tiberius, revealing the weapon from behind him and raising it above his head.

"Touché."

District Eight

Marcus Herrington likes being different. It makes him feel special. He's certain he is blessed with magical cat-powers. After all, it's so _obvious. _His eyes are olive-green with tiny cat-like pupils. He can jump a whole three feet into the air without even trying. True, so can most, but he does it with _cat-flair._

The other kids aren't wrong whenever they taunt him. He is insane. There's a gene on his mother's side that does it, so he cannot really be blamed. Of course, he doesn't _know_ that he is mad. Perhaps if he did he wouldn't be mad. But he doesn't, and he is, so that's all there is to it.

He gets dressed into his reaping clothes, which are his favourite and he wears them almost every day. Black trousers, a blue shirt with a kitten printed on it, and a cap that matches the latter.

Yes, he does love cats.

A slightly less insane person is also getting dressed into her reaping clothes. Paisley Hanover wears a navy-blue dress that is likely even older than her mother. _In fact, _Paisley thinks, _Gran probably wore this to _her_ reapings. _Yes, it's definitely old, to say the least.

She hears her mother yelling at her little brother to get inside. _Typical Needle, _she thinks, as his one true desire seems to be getting himself mucky and annoying their mother in the process. It must be the worst for her, as she works as a nurse in the doctor's surgery, and they take cleanliness seriously there.

After tying up her hair in a neat ponytail, Paisley heads downstairs and her sister screams. "What's wrong?" Paisley frets, running up to her.

"I heard a scary noise!" the ten-year-old exclaims.

Paisley shakes her head and smiles, "Don't be silly, Lacey. It was only me on the stairs!"

"No- no- no- no- it can't have been! It was scary! _Really _scary!" Paisley lets out a short sigh. _Typical Lacey, scared of her own shadow._

Lacey squeaks as another person thunders down the stairs. It's Plaid, and it's her final reaping today. She is the only one other than Paisley eligible to take tesserae, but she doesn't. Paisley happily volunteered to take the eight sets of extra slips, so why should she worry?

"Granny! Granny!" Plaid calls.

"I'm in here," replies their grandmother from the kitchen.

"How does my hair look?" Plaid nervously enquires as she enters the room. _Typical Plaid, _thinks Paisley, _only ever worried about how she looks._

"Oh! Let me fix that for you!" trills their grandmother. _Typical Gran,_ thinks Paisley,_ always doting over us_.

"Come on, everyone!" Paisley calls happily with a smile on her face, "We can't be late for the reaping!"

Typical Paisley, always perky and smiling. Even when her name is in the reaping bowl thirty-six times.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks to everybody that managed to get through all that! Over 6000 words! 0.0 I hope you now know a lot about all the tributes! Hopefully I did them all justice. Some have longer bits than others, but that's just kind of how it worked out. Twelve of them shall have a POV next chapter for the reaping, and the other twelve will have it for the goodbyes the chapter after. One from each district but drawn at random! So one could have lots of girls and then the other loads of boys :-S I don't know, it will be their luck!**

**Right, so I know not everyone exactly got the voting system, so here it is in more detail (hopefully). You review every chapter, and say your top five favourite tributes. These tributes shall then get points which shall increase their probability of surviving. You can NOT vote for any of your own tributes, though if you are remembering to review, I'll give your tribute(s) a point every time. And I'd like it if you gave a reason for your choosing, because then I can try and do more of the stuff you like from a certain character. Here is an example of what you may do:**

**1. Lev Calder – because he has a cool hairstyle  
2. Alice Longbottom – her story is so sad!  
3. Beatrice Prior – she's evil but I like it  
4. Emma Swan – she made me laugh  
5. Rory Williams – so cute!**

**And then Lev would get five points, Alice four, Beatrice three, Emma two, and then Rory one. And the person's own tribute would also receive a point! So hopefully that makes sense. And because I'm feeling spontaneous today, the first three people to say which fandom each name belongs to can have an extra point for their tribute! :-P You can never hate spontaneousness. Because it isn't a real word.**

**IMPORTANT: You NEED to remember to vote, because I only have three bloodbath tributes – everybody is in danger! I shall have a minimum of six bloodbaths, but more likely I shall kill eight of them off in the bloodbath. So remember to vote!**

**Okay, one more thing. If you think your tribute would like to make an alliance with another tribute, you can say that in your review also, but no promises, it's just to give me some ideas on it all. And just because your tribute is a Career does not necessarily mean they will automatically be in their group. So choose your alliances wisely.**

**Anything else you want to say, whether it's a comment, a suggestion, an error – whatever – just leave that in a review too.**

**I apologise for the long author's note, but this should be the longest one, and this is likely the longest chapter also. So just remember to review now! And the blog has been updated! (A bit) See you!**

**-IWriteStuffWithWordsInIt**


	4. The Reapings

**Hi guys! I apologise for the long wait. You weren't expecting it (unless you have ESP... which sometimes I actually seem to have o.0) and to be honest, neither was I. I've just been busy lately and didn't even realise how long it had been. I guess I accidentally went on hiatus there. It's not just this story, but all of them, including my Foxface story (which should be updating soon for those that read that). So I apologise!**

**Anywaaaay... I feel kind of dumb for calling Coral and her boyfriend star-crossed lovers last chapter. I always assumed it meant a head-over-heels type thing, but now I realise that actually, it means 'doomed to love'. So that's kinda awkward.**

**But sorry! Blabbering on here... hope you enjoy reading this chapter, that I do your characters justice and blah-blah-blah, you get my drift. Don't forget to review to keep your own and your favourite tributes out of the bloodbath! Please not that some of the escorts have been changed or merged together with the other idea for a district's escort! Now here it is!**

* * *

Ivory Glint, 17, District One

Brookie's perfectly-manicured hand reaches deep into the bowl, feeling around until she finds the slip she wants. _Come on! Get the torture over with! _She dashes back over to the mike and reads out as cordially as possible, "Silken Grate!" As soon as this is spoken, a short girl with her hair in two gold braids skips out of the thirteen-year-old section, smiling. I've seen her in training – she's good – but there's no way she'll go in the Games this year; she's just too young.

Once Silken is on stage, Brookie calls out those most loved words in the district – "Any volunteers?"

Before I know what's happening, I'm shouting, "I do! I volunteer! I do! Me! Me!" In no time at all I've beaten off about ten other girls and I'm mounting the stage. What? How did that happen? No! I'm not volunteering this year! No! Well, apparently, now I am.

I glance over to my mother, who is seated on stage with the other victors. She shakes her head at me, but there's a smile on her face that's saying, "That's my girl!" I just hope they'll switch her with one of the other victors to be my mentor. Oh, she's going to be so proud when I come back home! I'll have all the glory and fame I've ever dreamed of! And I'll be able to get a _proper _man, not just some make-do like Kyle.

I'm so busy daydreaming I don't even realise Silken's gone until Brookie's asking my name. "My name?" I laugh, "My name is Ivory Glint, and I'm going to win this thing, just like my mum did!" I smile over to my mother, and she punches the air for the cameras, then does a little eye gesture that reminds me to smile over at them. As if I'd forget. I turn back towards all the cameras and smile and growl and grin and pose. The male tribute's already been called and replaced by the time they're done with me. Can't blame them – I _am _beautiful, I get it from my mother.

The boy tribute is smug and crosses his arms when he gets up, eyeing somebody over in the adults' section of the crowd, and his eyebrows say it all. Then his mouth announces that his name is Titanium Gold, but we can call him 'Titan', because that's exactly what he is. I roll my eyes. The boys are all the same. Snarky, arrogant, naive – not like us girls. _We _are smart. _We _can control the boys with our looks – this one is especially true for me. What can they do? Throw a few spears? Maybe use a sword? Pur-lease! That isn't the _true _skill you need for winning. Sure, it helps, but it can't get you far. I'll have sponsors queuing round twelve blocks, while he... well, at least he's blonde, he's lucky with that.

Brookie tells us to shake hands and we oblige. From this moment on, as I stare up coldly into Titan's eyes, he is both my sworn enemy and ally. It will be so fun if I get the chance to kill him myself.

Tiberius Naysmith, 18, District Two

"Phobia Flint!" trills Faerie Diadem, our extremely red escort. Well huh. Guess she wasn't lying about going in the Games this year. Shame. She would have made a good victor. No matter. District 2 is still going to win, unlike my dumb brother last year. He's the only reason I didn't volunteer – it was his moment. Of course, he had to go and ruin it by dying. That Six bastard. I'll make sure to go after those precious little tributes of his.

Phobia laughs maniacally and bounds up to the stage, clearly on cloud nine. She's still laughing when Faerie asks for volunteers, at which point she abruptly stops and death glares the audience. It's a little surprising that nobody even attempts to run against her. Hm. Maybe she _will_ be one to watch after all. She continues to glare, this time to the cameras – at least she'll be getting us sponsors – before Faerie trots over to the boys' bowl and plucks a slip straight off the top.

"Phineas Co-"

"I volunteer!" yell me and several others. Shit. I have to be there first. I thunder through the crowd to the steps and easily drag some sixteen-year-old off them by the ankles. Another guy – maybe about fifteen – tries to wriggle along by, but his futile attempt is rewarded with nothing short of a broken jaw. I stand defiantly in front of the steps, folding my arms and narrowing my eyes. "Anybody else want a try?" I boom, and the only thing that ensues is silence. "I thought so."

I walk up to the stage with a smirk, before telling the escort my name. Phobia glares at me all the while. Poor her. She's terrified. We shake hands extremely briefly before entering the Justice Building.

Mars Elroid, 16, District Three

"Electra Watts!" Aquamarine Shimmer, our blue-addicted escort, calls out. I know that name. Electra Watts... she's the girl whose parents died in a house fire. Doesn't leave the community home much, or else I would have seen her before on some of my exploits. But I know enough that there must be something wrong with her. Probably went a bit crazy after the fire. And now she's getting reaped. Shame. At least there'll be less people for her to be missed by, I suppose.

The young girl – almost too innocent for words in her completely white outfit – shakily walks up to the stage. The look on her face is sheer terror, but doesn't totally fill her eyes with it. Hanging onto the hopes of a volunteer, I guess. None come, and she fights the urge to cry but eventually her face is in a downpour. A stray tear lands on one of the ground-speakers because there's a brief crackle as Aquamarine walks over to the boys' reaping bowl. And the winner is...

"Mars Elroid!" Nice. It's me. There are whispers to my left.

"How did somebody manage to get a fake name like that in there?"

"I dunno, but they've got some guts. There's definitely no 'Mars Elroid' here."

"Yeah, we would have met him. Or seen him. Or at least heard about him." I blow air out the corner of my mouth. My eyebrows furrow as I walk up to the stage, having to push away quite a few people, as they aren't expecting me. Very few know who I am, and that's how I like it. It's always worked for me. I mount the stage, seeing lots of confused faces wondering who the heck their male tribute even _is. _In response, I smile.

I look out to those that know me in some way. My parents. Finally taking notice in me. Bit late now. My brother, Jupiter. With his girlfriend – of course. He hasn't seen us in over a year. Then there's Kris, still stood with all the sixteen-year-old boys. I wish I was there now. He's got the same serious expression on his face as always. And finally there's Jony over with the girls. Her smile is fainter than normal. Trying to look cheerful but not overly happy either. It doesn't suit her.

Soon our escort is telling us to shake hands, and we do. I'm still beaming while Electra's in sobs. Only there's something wrong. The intensity of her reaction. The firmness of the handshake. The way she shakes herself. It isn't terror. It's staged. No, maybe not all staged. The shakiness – shaking the way one does in excitement. There's something here that Miss Electra Watts is hiding. A secret. And I'm the best at finding out secrets.

Coral Mar, 17, District Four

"I volunteer! I volunteer! I volunteer!" I call, not even acknowledging the name leaving Tiffany Wonderwall's slime-green lips. Three other girls have shouted back too, but I easily punch the first in the jaw, second in the breast, and the third gets an elbowing in the stomach. They aren't weak, I'm just strong. And they don't realise that my calmness with most people doesn't include my enemies. And at that moment even Arianna is my enemy, though we've been best friends since kindergarten. She won't mind. Much. She'll be grateful she wasn't enemy number two, at least.

"And what's your name, then?" Tiffany asks me like I'm five as I bound up to the stage. The reaped girl didn't even get the chance to leave her area. My pupils stare at the sky as I let out a small breath to calm myself down after getting so geared up to get here. I smile for the audience. _They're all loving you..._

"My name is Coral Mar, and you'd better not forget this face of your future victor!" I blow kisses to the camera, going through smiles, pouts, grins, every pose that'll get me sponsors.

"Now it's the boys' turn!" sings our purple-haired escort. She dips her hand in dramatically, fishes out a slip and then runs back over to the mike. "Flounder Perstash!" Immediately, there are shouts of volunteers from the boys. Around eight make it out, but two boys from the seventeen-year-old section start pushing them all back. Of course I know who these boys are. They're the biggest jerks in the district. Crush comes a closely-ranked number two after Sebastian Aqueor. And of course, he just _would _be the one given the thumbs-up by Crush and marching up towards me now. Ugh. I shall take pleasure in watching him die. Or even killing him myself. The way he thinks he's a god... The way he thinks that fish hook in his ear is the ultimate fashion accessory... Just ugh.

He announces himself to Tiffany and then we're going into the Justice Building. He gives me what he likely thinks is a seductive smile, and raises an eyebrow in what he likely thinks is sexy way. I whip a half-smile, half-grimace back at him, "I'd rather not, thanks."

Spark Nightrush, 16, District Five

"Applia Frebosky!" Poor soul. It's another twelve-year-old. That's the third in a row. Over in the girls' section, Singe shoots me a grimace. That means we don't like it, but at least it isn't her or somebody close. It could be worse.

The poor girl's teeth are chattering, knees knocking as she comes to rest on stage. I doubt it's possible for her to make it past the first day, as bad as it sounds. "Any volunteers?" Zalinia Sparkles pointlessly sing-songs. Applia hopelessly glances about, as if there could be a saviour on the way. Lost cause.

"Yes! I volunteer as tribute! I volunteer!" shouts some crazy girl. The whole of District Five turns towards the noise. A girl with long and wavy blonde hair steps out of the fourteen-year-old section. She raises her head a little, then marches along the gravel in those worn-out boots towards the stage. I know her name before it's screamed out by her sisters, before she tells the escort it herself. Everyone knows the Versonas; they're a bit weird, quirky, especially Ellie, the one walking to her coffin right now – they get taken the mick out of a little. I _knew _they were odd. But this... _this _isn't odd. _This... _is just mad. Mad. Crazy. Reckless. _Stupid, _to put it in one word. Ellie Versona is just stupid. At least she's saving a twelve-year-old's life. That's the one good thing.

"Spark Nightrush!" The boys. I didn't know they were up to the boys. Apparently so.

My stomach sinks. How... how can it be me? A glance to Singe. Is this real? Is this happening? A nod. A sad, regretful nod. A nod that wishes it was not. I gulp. I step forwards. And again. And again. Until I'm stood on the stage. Now _I'm_ that poor soul, that cursed breed with only false hopes and lost causes to cling to. I am not as lucky as Applia.

As we two shake hands, the briefest of smiles forms on her face. A smile that is saying that this is just how it goes. I return the gesture. Even if it turns out she _is_ mad, I could do with an ally.

"Harry" Kline, 12, District Six

Lucretia Charm reaches her hand down, down, down into the girls' reaping bowl. This is the first time I've not Annabel to worry about. Whoever she picks, it shan't affect me in any way. No siree, nuh-uh. Even Gregor and Logan are quiet now. I'm the only one daring to breathe, it seems. Works for me. Nobody to stare at me or tease me and make me cry and then tease me more.

The white-haired Capitolite slowly peels back the black tape on the slip. "Naomi Steel!" she announces into the mike. Maybe five seconds later, there's a girl wearing a yellow dress and with light-brown hair making her way towards the stage. Her shoulders are stiff, attempting to stay calm, but her hands shake like they've been shocked by some sort of current. When she's stood on the stage her face is a pale shade of green and it's clear she feels sickly. I would too, if it were me. Wait, it still could be me.

After asking for volunteers, Lucretia moves on to the boys' bowl. _My _bowl. Nausea. Pounding head. Pounding _heart. _This is what I feel as she withdraws the slip and readies herself to read it out. She gives a little cough to clear her throat. "Ahem, Henry Kline!" _Phew, _I think at first, _not me. _But it's the same surname... Oh. Henry's my official name. It's me. I freeze on the spot.

There's laughing and jeering from behind me in the thirteen-year-olds' section. Logan and Gregor. They begin to poke me, they tease me, they... force me to run straight out of the twelve-year-old section and into the aisle. Oops. Now I look eager. I switch to slow movements, plod, plod, plod. I'm scared. I'm scared. One... foot... after... the other. On stage, Michael Shutter, last year's victor, appears relieved, yet terrified. I didn't know that was possible. In just moments I'm on stage too, and the nausea's got worse. _Much worse._

Lucretia asks for any volunteers but I know none will come. But... but... I'm just so... scared. I shake in my boots. This isn't real. I shake like a leaf. This isn't real. I shake like a fully-charged electron. This is real.

I can't control it. The last thing I remember is vomiting up breakfast all over my escort's shoes, before falling onto my back. Then it's the blackout.

Paul Oakenwood, 14, District Seven

Barbarella Beaumont – or 'BB' as most of us call her to save our tongues – reaches her pale pink hand into the glass bowl. She giggles girlishly as she runs over to the mike. "Franchesca Willowton-Fortescue!" I know that name. Well, the last name at least. Whoever this girl is, she's related to our mayor.

From the seventeen-year-old section out steps a girl with golden-blonde hair. Her face distorts into an expression I can't believe. Delight? The girl dashes up to the stage with a huge grin on her face before snatching the microphone straight out of BB's grip. She flips her hair dramatically, or maybe attempting to appear sexy, and waves to people in the crowd at random. The mayor, for the first time ever, is stiff with shock.

"Oh! Em! See! That's like; oh my Capitol!" Franchesca yells so hard into the microphone it fractures the sound system for a moment. _OMC? _Is this girl serious? Well, I suppose she _is _the mayor's daughter. I guess rich people's kids end up all ditzy like that when they've no need to be smart, or do well in school because their family's just rich. "It's going to be, like, the _best _holiday ever! I'm _sooooo_ excited!" She turns to BB. "Is it true you really pave the streets with gold? Like, with diamonds instead of pebbles? No matter! This is still gonna be like, _soooo _fabulous! And you look amazing by the way! Pink on pink?! HOT! Sorry, sorry, sorry! I'm just _soooo _excited to be here and like, everything!"

At that point BB grapples the microphone back off her, flustered after the unexpected outburst. "Well, uh, any volunteers? ...No? Then, ahem... Franchesca Willowton-Fortescue, everyone!" The Mayor's still glued down to his seat. A short, strained applause as Franchesca giggles and smiles and blows kisses and... blargh. She _seems_ a pretty useless hope as a Victor, but... erm... she's pretty, so she could get sponsors and still win! Maybe...

"How about the boys, then?" BB asks after the clapping dies down, which takes all of two seconds. She frolics over to the boys', pulls out a slip and... and... "Paul Oakenwood!" What? I'm stunned. With robotic steps I somehow manage to make my way to the stage. My regular composure only returns when I make it up the third step. I cross my fingers there'll be a volunteer, but none are forthcoming. Oh well. I could still do this. Just need to stay... motivated, like how I motivate my family. My family... I hope they'll be all right while I'm gone. Hopefully gone won't mean forever.

Paisley Hanover, 15, District Eight

"Paisley Hanover," says Hadrian Wells solemnly. Not solemnly because he doesn't enjoy it, or because he thinks the Games are bad, but more just because he's Hadrian Wells. This is his third year as Eight's escort, and he never steps out of black. It's really odd for a Capitol person, being all goth like that, but I think that could be a good thing. Wait... Paisley Hanover? That's me! Oh my gosh... that's me!

I can't enter the Games. I can't. I'm too small, too weak to do something like that. I- I- I've no chance. No, I do. I do. Everybody has a chance. Oh, but-

I lose the fight against my conflicting emotions, and though the crowd has parted for me, I stay glued to the spot, crying. How can I-? How can I-? Peacekeepers seize my arms and it just makes me sob more and more and more as they drag me to the stage. One last push from them and I'm climbing the steps up to Hadrian. I can't stop crying, so I try to smile to make myself a bit happier, but I'm still sniffling by the time the male tribute's walking up.

No, not walking up. Bounding, more like. And then pouncing up the steps. Like a... like a... like a cat! I've heard of him. Marcus Herrington, or as a lot of people call him, 'crazy cat-kid'. I don't call him that. I tell the others it's mean, but he actually seems to like it. I suppose they think that because of his tiny pupils and his... somewhat lack of sanity, but people say that he can actually _sniff _them out at hide-and-seek. I'm not so sure.

I continue crying and crying and crying no matter how many times my brain orders my body to stop. Salt water drops on both mine and Marcus' hands when we shake. So... maybe the crying will mean no sponsors. And the fact of my size. And my weak appearance. But... I could still win this, right? I could still win? Everybody has a chance.

Artemis Tsuki, 16, District Nine

"Goren Vare!" No. NO! That stupid, prissy escort! Why does she have to call my name, and then call his as well? Stupid, stupid, STUPID! I was going to ask him out! I mean, yes, he'd probably say no, but... then when I was called I was going to win for _him! _Now I can't! Stupid, stupid, STUPID!

I take in every last detail of him as he starts to walk up. Scuffed black-turning-to-grey shoes that must never have had time to be cleaned. Black trousers starting to fray at the bottom of the legs. A dark green shirt that's too big for him. And his face is straight but conflicting. His eyes show shock, but he has 'thinking' eyebrows, pushed down so the shock isn't as obvious. I bet he's already planning a whole strategy out. He's smart enough. I'm sure he'll be smarter than me. Only smart thing I ever do is read books all day.

He maintains the same straight expression as we shake hands, but from the burning in my cheeks I can tell they're beetroot by now. He just looks... right into my eyes. Never been close enough for him to do that before. I like it.

I hope he wins. Rather him than me. I will definitely ally with him – I have to. I can't let him die. Because then, what hope would District Nine have? None with me.

Amber Black, 14, District Ten

I stumble towards the stage after they've called my name. I wish they hadn't. But I suppose that's what everybody wishes. They also all wish for a volunteer, same as me right now. And same as me, they don't get one. Well, except the ones from Career districts. They _always _get one. Lucky buggers.

I hope they can't tell I'm scared. They can't know I'm scared. I won't let them know I'm scared. Fear is a weak emotion – I won't let myself show it! Only this is a feeble attempt.

The only things I hear are the clunk-chink, clunk-clink of my loose buckled shoes as I climb each step until I'm beside Timacio Collins. Gazing out at the crowd, there is relief among the girls, as well as bitterness. I know why the bitterness. With me, they're certain of no female victor – I barely get to leave the house I'm that ill half the time. But they have hope too, that perhaps my counterpart could still be good enough. I stare over to Bill. I hope he isn't picked too...

"Bill Black!" announces the Capitol man beside me. No. No! Did I- did I just jinx it? I didn't touch wood. I'm frozen in place whilst he walks forward, his expression morphing between ones of first surprise, then craziness, anger, and eventually hopelessness. His dark hair messily hangs over his green eyes as always. I can just _tell _he's desperately hoping for a volunteer. He won't look me in the eye as he comes onstage, and still hasn't by the time we're shaking hands.

Well. At least one of us could win. He could. He's strong. I'm anything but.

I just wish he'd look me in the eyes.

Linden Cormac, 12, District Eleven

A perfect 'O' rests on Aimee Terra's lips as she makes her way to the stage. Her hands are clenched in little balls at her sides and her arms are straight as planks stiffly hanging. She regains the composure in her face to appear more calm, but it's taken too long so that everyone's noticed.

I don't witness this directly, of course. I'm just going by the big screen behind Ophelia Sarris. She doesn't smile like most of the escorts do. In fact, I'd go as far as to say she's simply bored. Bored that a girl thinks she'll be dead within weeks, and is probably right. How nice.

There are yells as she walks. A shout that somebody will volunteer for her. Whether this was a true statement or not I guess we'll never know, because the girl shoots an imploring look to the fourteen-year-old section she just left. _No, _that look says. _Don't. Just don't._

She reaches the stage and there are no volunteers. She almost seems pleased about it. Well, as pleased as you can be when you're about to be sent into a battle to the death. It's only then I register that this means Maple is safe for another year. Now time to see if it's the same for me.

It's not.

The pink-afro woman has spoken. It's me.

How? HOW? The chances were... they were tiny! Miniscule! Even with the tesserae! How could-?

My body starts to tremble. My knees knock and my hands shake and my teeth chatter. I bite my lip to hide the chattering. I thrust my hands in my pockets to hide the shaking. I walk dead ahead with large steps to prevent my knees knocking together.

At the steps, I stop. They are the final part of this. Just the final part before I get a rest on the stage. After attempting to keep my gigantic grey socks pulled up, I take the first step of many.

A thought pops into my head. Maybe Dory was right this morning. Maybe the time it takes for me to grow into my socks will be never after all.

Malachite Cicero, 17, District Twelve

Quick little breaths, quick little breaths. Don't let them know what you're about to do. The girl reaches the stage shaking. Galeno Travis sighs exasperatedly.

"Any volunteers, then?"

Everyone anticipates the silence awaiting the crying child, but then they don't know yet. There's never any volunteers in Twelve. Until today.

"I do! I volunteer!" I shout as loud as possible. A thousand faces turn round to me, looks of bewilderment and confusion on their faces. I laugh at them and skip my way up to the stage. The little girl's frozen in shock still when I get there. "Run along now," I say to her. Then I tease, "Or else I might change my mind." That makes her scarper pretty quickly. I announce my name to the escort before he's even the chance to ask. He claps wholeheartedly at something finally going on around here.

Few others do. Most just stand there with mixed expressions. Some tilt their heads to one side and several pinch their arms. Nope, you're not dreaming. You really did just get a decent tribute.

"Well, then! I suppose it's time for the boys, then!" Galeno beams, practically skipping over to the boys' bowl. I haven't a clue why he says 'then' after every sentence. "Ahem, Julies Dust!" he reads. Fine, not _every _sentence. The boy steps angrily out of the sixteen-year-old section and stomps to the stage, though it's obvious he's hiding his terror. Ha. He'll be fun to watch die. Or even to kill him myself. He _is _the most annoying boy in the entire district. Always using the fact that he's the mayor's son against us. He gets the Peacekeepers to support him in whatever it is he's doing, get normal people – mostly from the Seam – in trouble. Yup, I bet the whole district's reasonably pleased about this outcome.

"Oh my, my, my, then!" Galeno trills, pressing his hands against his ribcage, "You're the mayor's son, aren't you, then? Oh my, then! Such drama we have today, then!"

As the pale-faced mayor reluctantly tells us to shake hands a minute later, there's the false belief of superiority in Julies' eyes. He thinks he's smarter than me. Thinks he'll win for sure, certainly beat me. Ha. As if. But they are also questioning me. _Why? _They say. _Why the hell did you volunteer for this? _Ah. Now that would be telling.

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**Soooo... you guys remember how to vote, right? If not, just go back a chapter, it's there. And you need to review if you want your tribute to stay in! If you aren't reviewing, I don't know you're reading, and if you're not reading, why shouldn't I kill your character straight off?**

**Hope you guys liked this chapter and that I did all your tributes justice!**


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